


Ctrl+Freak

by Catsitta



Series: Caramel Macchiatos [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Accidental/Implied Dom/Sub, Coffee Shops, Does this count as romance?, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Female Reader, Guilt, Non-Sexual Submission, POV Second Person, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, Pre-Relationship, Reader doesn't know how to feel about her feelings and it goes downhill from there, Reader-Insert, Shame, Swearing, Undertale Monsters on the Surface, Weird flirting, submissive sans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 15:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17004336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catsitta/pseuds/Catsitta
Summary: You’re a fledgeling website designer with a nightmare client that is driving you to wits end. Sans is the unlucky skeleton who breaks the last of your failing self-control. He doesn’t react as expected.Reader Insert | Female Reader | Sans/Reader





	Ctrl+Freak

**Author's Note:**

> This was an impulsive, unplanned oneshot primarily written when I needed an easy distraction from my mouth numbness after a dental visit.

“Yes Mr. Harrison. I’ll get those edits done by Monday, ah..yes. Monday. Tomorrow is Sunday, sir, as stated in our contract I do not work Sundays without an express fee of...Yes, I am being serious! I...Yes sir. I’ll have a file for your to review tomorrow then. Have a nice day.”

You felt eyes on you as the call ended. Of course there was an eavesdropper. Why wouldn’t there be at a busy coffee shop? You were probably one of the most entertaining things in the room for the past half hour as you tried to talk some sense into your current Client from Hell. Between your timid, eager-to-please voice, the death grip you had on your laptop, the three disposable empty coffee cups littering the table and the manic bitch face you wore—it was obvious that you were one dropped muffin away from utterly losing your mind. Aching eyes dropped to the screen and the complete mockery of good, sensible design Mr. Harrison decided was the the height of creative ingenuity. You were the designer. He hired you to make him a website. Yet he wouldn’t let you do your job! He kept making nonsensical changes until the initial concept you adored and he raved about a month ago, now looked like kindergartner fridge art.

You dropped your head to the edge of the table and just rest it there, wanting dearly to bash it repeatedly until you forgot how desperately you wanted this job to end. Maybe you’d fall unconscious and get some needed sleep.

“No Mr. Harrison, I won’t change the text in the header to be in comic sans. I’d rather gouge my own eyes out that commit such an atrocity as a working professional in my industry. Fuck you comic sans. Fuuuuuuck youuuu.” You would think that after all the memes and junk out there on the internet that he’d know the taboo. But no.

“buy me dinner first.”

The intrusion of a deep male voice ground your mental gears to a halt. He wasn’t talking to you. Did he not see the number of extra large cups on the table? You breathed in a steadying breath, daring to look up, hoping you’d see some guy at the table next to yours chatting it up with someone else. To your over-caffeinated aggravation, that was not the case. Slouching in the chair across from yours was a skeleton monster in an unzipped, rumpled hoodie over top a wrinkled white tee. The dark smudges beneath his eye sockets were your spirit animal right now, but the stupid grin on his skull made him the devil walking. You saw monsters around town on occasion, they tended to keep to themselves since returning to the Surface and gaining lawful citizen status. Hard to blame them. Humans didn’t like change and there was more than one anti-monster hate protest in the past few years.

Had you been less on edge, you might have been disturbed by the memento mori that sat his happy pelvis in your line of sight; instead, your gaze traveled to the white cup invading your space, the words “comic sans” written on the side like a bad omen. You level him with a glare. Your lack of enthusiasm triggered a snicker of amusement at your expense. Was this some kind of joke? Had he overheard your conversation and decided to make merry of your misery by mocking you?

The skeleton gave the cup a shake and wagged his browbones.

To be honest, you weren’t an aggressive person by nature. You could be assertive...sometimes. Friendly and agreeable only got you so far in your industry and you were quickly learning that bending at the wrong moments landed you in the very situation you were in now. Stuck with a nightmare client, running on empty fumes and caramel macchiatos, with a eavesdropping comedian savoring your suffering. Everyone hit their limit. That moment where all common sense and courtesy went flying out the window, as if were driving 120mph down the interstate wearing nothing nothing but a smile. 

You slammed the lid of your laptop shut and stood, knocking your chair back with a creak. The skeleton’s smile didn’t waver as you planted both palms on the table, braced on either side of your computer. Why should he be scared? You were a short, scrawny human woman, a recent college graduate that forgot to eat some days and couldn’t afford to do so half the time you remembered it was required. You lived off of Starbucks and dreams like the goddamned stereotypical millennial that you were. And the skeleton? He was a monster. They had magic. Spell slinging skeletons definitely had the advantage in a fight with a sleep-deprived designer. 

But that didn’t mean you had to sit there and let him win!

“was gonna say ice to sleet you, but uh, you seem to be giving me the cold shoulder,” the skeleton said, thumbing at the window with a mittened fist. You catch the skitter of white in your peripheral. Of course it was snowing. That was going to be fun to drive home in. Not. “cat-uccino got your tongue?” That wink was just icing on your shitty mood sundae.

In a low voice that barely sounded like your own you ground out, “If you’re just going to sit there and mock me, mr. comic sans, you can just get up now. Go on, up!” His smile lowered at the corners, eyelights suddenly small. Slowly, he rose up out of the seat, as if half-expecting you to throw your laptop at his head. “Now you can either go get me another coffee or you can get out of my face. Or, preferably, both!” God you sounded like a crazy bitch. That little giggle at the end didn’t help. The skeleton didn't move right away, but those tiny, quivering eyelights are fuller, fuzzier. If he was human you’d say his pupils were dilated. He’d be right to be angry right now. Either that or he was afraid.

“...kay.”

When he didn’t raise his voice in return and ducked his head—sweat on his skull, a slight dusting of blue across his nasal bone—the realization of what you just did hit you. All the fury and spite drained to your feet and your mouth opened with the frantic urge to apologize. But the skeleton turned his back and walked off, shuffling away like a kicked dog. Once more you felt eyes upon you and this time, you deserved their judgement. Shame and embarrassment choked out your ability to talk...or even stand. You dropped back down into your chair and buried your face in your arms, hands clenched tight. Everyone in the shop probably thought you were a spiteful, monster-hating racist.

Lost in the middle of your internal bludgeoning, your brain screaming every reprimand it could formulate, you didn’t hear or see a thing until someone cleared their throat and pulled your attention back into reality. It was the skeleton, his eyelights still wide and averted, a giant white cup in his hand. He placed it on the table between you both like a peace offering. Your shoulders dropped. A tiny, terrible part of you thrilled at the gesture. For once someone actually listened to you and did what you said. For a single, small moment you had micromillimeter of power. But the rest of your mind that decided to be a decent human being snuffed out that thought like a lit match. You just scared someone...this monster was placating his bully. Could you just go crawl in a ditch now and die?

“Y-you...you bought me coffee...after I...oh, you didn’t actually have to…” you stumbled over your words, cluttered thoughts falling over each other in a writhing heap. His gaze cut to you from the corners of his sockets and a shiver crept up your spine. He shrugged and laid the cup down, before tucking his free hand into his pocket, his own drink caught in the other. “I’m sorry! Look, I’ve been having a horrible day and I took it out on you and—”

“fuggetaboutit, snow big deal. s’all done and over with,” he said, though he still doesn’t look directly at you. “whelp, got a skele-ton of things to be doing. best be headin’ out.” Once more he walked away, but this time, you watched him head out the front door. You’re not sure why, but you surged up to your feet and followed him.

“Wait!” A single word stilled him. He paused mid step, head tilting slightly to the side.

“I...let me pay you back,” you fumbled for your wallet, realizing that in your haste to catch him you left your purse slung over the back of the chair. “I’ve got cash back in the shop I could—”

The skeleton chuckled humorlessly, cutting you off, “nah. like ice said, snow big deal. you were having a bad time. i get it. believe me.”

“I still shouldn’t have yelled at you. It was unwarranted. I’m truly sorry.”

“...don’t be.”

Wait, what? You frowned as he turned around, his skull still bearing that odd blue tint. “Of course I should be sorry. I yelled at and probably embarrassed you in front of all those people. I mean, just because I didn’t your joke was funny that didn’t give me license to lose my temper like that.”

“heh. you’re not the first human to think i was japing them when I told them my name.” Your eyes went wide as he extended a hand, “what’cha say to starting over? ice to sleet you, my name’s sans. short for comic sans the skeleton.”

“Your name is really?”

“yup.”

The red that suffused your face was not from the cold. Not sure if you deserved his easy forgiveness, you took his mitten and shook his hand—  
PFFFFT

—and were met with the wet squelch of a whoopie cushion. 

“heh. hehe. that’s funny every time.” Apparently Comic Sans lived up to his namesake in more ways than just wordplay. A smiled cracked on your lips and a soft giggle escaped. You offered your own name in return before he retrieved his hand and tucked it away again. “i really do have places to be, kid, but uh, it was nice meeting you.”

“You too. Have a good rest of your day!”

As you retreated back to the coffee shop, you swore you heard that deep voice grumble, “that an order?” No. That was just your imagination. Once back indoors you peeked out the glass. Sans was gone. Off into the big world, never to be seen by you again. It was the way of the big city. With a sigh, you dropped your butt back into the chair you’d been occupying for the better part of the day and stared at the full cup resting on the table. Sans’ name marred the surface in black marker. Wait...you blinked, trying to figure out if you were seeing what you thought you were seeing.

“Is...is that a phone number?” It had to be another prank. A joke at the expense of the petty person who embarrassed him in public. Curiosity wouldn’t let you sit idle and you entered the digits into your phone. 

 

YOU  
Knock Knock

 

No response came. If it was some kind of prank line you were supposed to call, maybe texts wouldn’t trigger it. Deciding there was no point in loitering in the coffee shop with your head in a mess, you gathered up your stuff and headed home. 

And yes, the drive sucked.

People always forgot how to operate their motor vehicles when the weather was anything but perfectly sunny. 

You were holed up in your apartment, nose practically glued to the computer screen, the room dark save for the laptop’s blinding glow, when your phone buzzed. With the heel of your palm, you rubbed your dry eyes and plucked up the cell, dread roiling in your gut at the thought of more last minute changes from Mr. Harrison. Except, that wasn’t your nightmare client’s number.

 

xxx-xxx-xxxx  
whos there?

 

It was the number beneath Sans’ name on the cup.

 

YOU  
Coffee

xxx-xxx-xxxx  
coffee who?

YOU  
Coffee me surprised that you gave me your number. This is Sans, right?

 

There was a long pause before another message came through.

 

xxx-xxx-xxxx  
lol. yup. 

 

You saved his name in your contacts, your heart beating a touch faster. There was no good reason for you to have his number. You hadn’t even apologized when he wrote it on the cup. The parting words (those that just had to be imagined) clung heavily to your mind alongside the image of his flushed skull. Had he been blushing? Could skeletons blush? 

Swallowing down the butterflies that tried to escape your stomach, you type out a single word.

 

YOU  
Why?

 

No response came. You stared at the device for a few more minutes before resigning yourself to your work. It was hours later (you fell asleep on your awful couch at some point, cuddling that computer like a kitten), when your phone vibrated again. A sleep heavy eyelid peeled open as you fumbled to check the message, your foggy brain screaming that it was Sunday and you just wanted to be unconscious for a while longer.

 

SANS  
cuz ur lke me

SANS  
a ctrl freak

 

That...that was not the response you were expecting at all. Feeling far more awake, you simply stared at the message with a dry a mouth and confusion warring in your stomach. How did one reply to that? Should you be insulted or flattered or how the frick were you supposed to feel? He gave you his number and bought you coffee because you were a mythic bitch to him. No, that didn’t seem quite right. 

It didn’t feel sane or healthy, but your fingers tapped out a reply and clicked send before you brain could censor it.

 

YOU  
Does that mean I should call you up and order coffee or my laundry done like a snobby CEO? ;D

 

You groaned. Hopefully Sans would laugh it off as a tasteless joke instead of getting offended. Or maybe he’d stop texting in general because this was getting weird, and creepy and you were a terrible person who was starting to feel and think terrible things. Like how cute he’d be fetching your imaginary dry cleaning like a harried intern, flushed but eager to please. 

 

SANS  
wtvr u want boss

 

Freak was the right word. Because you kept texting back.

**Author's Note:**

> END
> 
> I'm not planning on continuing this. Thus how the story continues is left to you readers. ^_-
> 
> If you're interested in seeing what I'm working on and other artsy things, check out my [tumblr](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/). I do chapter previews, post potential future fic ideas as well as make art. 
> 
> STORY NOTES:  
> +The title is derived from the keyboard hotkeys/short cuts, which often reference ctrl + (other key here). Ctrl being common short hand for control. 
> 
> +[Clients from Hell](http://clientsfromhell.net/) is an actual site. It is quite amusing. The suffering of freelancers in writing.
> 
> +The majority of this fic was inspired by literally two ideas:  
> What is a fic called ctrl+freak about (obv. someone who works with computers)  
> Comic Sans is a memed plague upon designers everywhere trying to make tasteful design


End file.
